


falling slowly (we've still got time)

by arkadianmouse



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Frivolous Miracles, Historical References, M/M, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 11:00:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19333213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arkadianmouse/pseuds/arkadianmouse
Summary: aziraphale and crowley change, after all.they just move very slowly toward it.





	falling slowly (we've still got time)

**Author's Note:**

> Between revisiting the "Once" soundtrack and "Good Omens," I’ve really been transported back to 2012. (I can only hope my writing skills have improved.)
> 
> All song lyrics are from the beautiful soundtrack to "Once." They are so inspirational and fitting, I just had to work them in. Please listen to it in it's entirety, but especially, "Falling Slowly," "Fallen from the Sky," "The Hill," "Gold," and of course, "If You Want Me."
> 
> This kind of blurs the line between the book and the miniseries, in the sense that even “broken up,” these two can’t possibly stay away from each other for long. Entwined destinies and all that. And yes, in the book, they do hold hands at the end of the world. I just had to go back to check!
> 
> Enjoy!

If there is something Aziraphale learns, after it all, it’s that humans resist change. Often, with their entire beings, consciously or unconsciously. They like incremental change, of course—new advances in technology, a new romantic pursuit, or that promotion at work—but when it comes to earth-shattering, life-molting, capital “C” _change_ —well, they will do just about anything to hold on tightly to what they’ve already got.

Aziraphale had understood in theory why they were resistant to change, but after six thousand years of endless cycles of the stuff, it’s hard to fully get what they were all worried about.

It is during the Apocalypse, when Aziraphale’s own world is crumbling, and Crowley’s hand is in his, and Adam Young is about to face down an insurmountable evil, and Crowley’s _hand_ is in _his,_ that he realizes what all the fuss about change is about. “ _Oh_ ,” he thinks to himself, and that’s when the world changes for good.

 

part i.

 _you must have fallen from the sky, you must have shattered on the wrong way  
_ _you brought so many to the light, and now you’re by yourself_

Aziraphale is sitting across from Crowley. He doesn’t know why their paths continue to cross like this. He doesn’t yet know that at some point they will be on the same path, together. The same side.

Currently, Crowley is flicking lentils at him, the little pods skittering across the course wood of the table. Aziraphale shoots him a withering glare.

“You are wasting food,” he says, his stomach grumbling at the thought. Human organs, although he has final say over them, can be so embarrassing sometimes. Perhaps Gabriel was right, and he has been polluting his celestial temple a little too… thoroughly. He passes a hand over the scattered lentils and miracles up a bowl of porridge on the table next to them. The little girl sitting there silently plucks her thumb out of her mouth and looks at the food excitedly.

“And you, angel, are wasting miracles,” Crowley says, but Aziraphale can see the edges of the demon’s mouth soften as the girl takes a bite of the porridge.  Aziraphale clears his throat and looks down quickly at the book he has brought with him.

“What is it this time?” Crowley asks, plucking the book out of Aziraphale’s hands. Aziraphale makes a noise of protest, but he sees Crowley slip a thin finger in between the pages, holding Aziraphale’s place. _Really, dear,_ Aziraphale thinks, growing warm.

“Milton’s newest,” Aziraphale glows proudly. “First edition. I have a feeling it’s going to be quite popular.”

Crowley skims through the pages at the front, finger still in place. Aziraphale sees the exact moment Crowley recognizes the names within the book.

“Huh,” the demon says, “Why do they choose to fixate so much on the Garden of Eden? That’s ancient history by this point!”

“Well, my dear,” Aziraphale says. “You did have quite the effect in those days.”

Aziraphale thinks he sees a flush, but must be imagining it. He has always been quite sure that Crowley is cold-blooded, snake-hearted as he is.

“Besides,” he continues. “Milton is hoping to make sense of… well, everything. An analysis of God’s plan through poetry. I quite like it, even if he does miss a few things here and there.”

“Sounds quite blasphemous to me. Milton, you say? Wonder if I’ve had a run in with him…”

“Oh, you wouldn’t!” Aziraphale’s tone is almost scandalized. “Yes, God’s plan is…”

“Ineffable?”

“Hush. But yes. Still, I don’t see the harm in a… literary exploration…”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“Right, then.”

Aziraphale took the book back from Crowley, fingers brushing against Crowley’s as he made sure to keep his place saved. Crowley pulled back quickly, hands moving to straighten his sharp pair of shades, always a little out of place in whatever century they were in.

Aziraphale found the smile on his face might be a little too fond, but Crowley didn’t comment on it.

“Do you think of those days often?”

It doesn’t take Crowley long to answer. “No, angel, not the beginning.”

“It does seem to get fuzzier with time, wouldn’t you say?” Aziraphale is lying. Like elephants, angels never forget.

“No,” Crowley says, and his voice is low, but rough around the edges. “No, I remember everything. Just don’t like to dwell on it.”

Aziraphale wonders what _everything_ entails, but he doesn’t press. Some things are not for him to know. Some things are simply ineffable.

“Well,” Aziraphale says, looking back to the girl finishing her porridge. “What do you say to dessert at my place?”

Crowley raises a long, thin eyebrow. “I say you’re getting much better at this temptation thing.”

 

part ii.

 _please try to be patient and know that i’m still learning  
_ _i’m sorry that you have to see the strength inside me burning_

 

Still, Aziraphale can’t help but wonder… _what does he remember?_

Crowley is chattering in his exaggerated way, and Aziraphale is tossing old bread to the ducks gathered at their feet. The ducks are quite fond of Aziraphale’s loaves, which have been divinely intervened with to still be soft and warm even after being tossed out by the bakeries for growing crusty. After all, Aziraphale hates wasting food.

“And then, Hastur actually congratulates me for the new Metropolitan Railway—he looked about to be sick! But have you heard of this, angel? The humans are building things _underground_ now. Well, I suppose they’ve always done that bit, but now they want to take trains underground!”

“How funny,” Aziraphale says, but he really thinks, _how clever_. He has grown so fond of these humans. “But is it your doing?”

“No! You would think, bringing humans lower to Hell and all that, but they just went and did it on their own! Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure there will be some delicious frustration that comes with building a railway underground, but it was all them!”

Aziraphale looks over at Crowley, who has thrown his head back to laugh joyously. The sound is delightful, music to Aziraphale’s ears. With every advance of technology, Crowley seems to grow—brighter. Or rather, Aziraphale thinks of the brilliant aura that surrounds his friend—a little darker. An inky black that thrives on the growth of humanity. _How funny_.

“Aren’t demons supposed to be against progress?” He can’t help but wonder out loud. He bites his lip after that—wondering is supposed to be dangerous, isn’t it?

Crowley’s head is still thrown back against the back of the bench, and his throat works silently, Adam’s apple bobbing. For a treacherous moment, Aziraphale wonders what it tastes like. _How’s that for a temptation?_ He thinks as Crowley begins to speak.

“Progress…” Crowley is saying. “I’m not sure. I like the new things that they come up with. I like the things I come up with to mess with those new things. So maybe, change is a better word for it. I like change.”

Aziraphale thinks he sees Crowley looking at him from behind his shades, but he can’t be sure.

“I don’t know how I feel about change,” Aziraphale finds himself saying.

“Angel…” Crowley starts, but they are interrupted by two children chasing a wooden hoop careening dangerously down the gravel, racing through the cluster of ducks in front of them. The ducks scatter loudly, one of them flying up and hitting Crowley square in the face.

“G-, S-” Crowley stutters manically. “For _somebody’s_ sake, people need to start controlling their brats!”

“Now, now,” Aziraphale clucks. “That’s not very sporting of you. What is it you said about causing a little chaos when you invented playground games?”

“I thought I told you to keep that under wraps,” Crowley grumbled, as Aziraphale plucked a stray feather from Crowley’s red locks. Before he could drop it to the ground, Crowley caught his wrist and held it tightly, the space between them closing ever so slightly.

“Crowley, what—”

“Don’t,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale realized he wasn’t looking at him at all, but rather the feather. The next moment, Crowley seemed to shake out of his stupor and had released him, pulling back dramatically. Aziraphale placed the feather in the space between them.

“Apologies,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale chuckled, but it felt wrong. “I thought you said demons don’t apolo—”

“I know what I say,” Crowley spoke softly, almost too softly.

 _It’s what you don’t say that’s the issue,_ Aziraphale thought. But in the end, he couldn’t say it either.

When they rose to leave St. James’ Park, the feather was still resting on the bench. Despite the breeze that blew, it remained stuck there, as if by paste—or some miracle. It wasn’t going to fall. Not that night, at least.

 

part iii.  
  
_are you really here? or am i dreaming?_  
_i can’t tell dreams from truth anymore..._

 

Aziraphale hadn’t seen Crowley in…  sometimes, it was best not to count. The war had separated a lot of people by this point— _families_ —but Aziraphale couldn’t shake the feeling that war was not the reason Crowley was avoiding him. Yes, they had exchanged some _words_ not too long ago, but that had been—well, Crowley had always come back to him before.

The war had passed through England like a biblical plague, and Aziraphale’s heavenly skin crawled even now with a single thought, _it’s not over. Never over._ His right hand ached as if reaching out for a sword. He shuddered and turned out the lights in his bookshop, turning toward the stairs.

“Got the creeping sense that someone’s watching, angel?”

Aziraphale didn’t jump—instead, he hurled the book he had been carrying upstairs with him at the shadowy figure in the hall. It hit the figure squarely in the face.

“’Ziraphale!” The figure sqawked, and by this point, Aziraphale had already registered the voice.

“Oh!” He cried. “Oh, my dear boy, I’m so sorry, I’ve already had two break-ins this month, though they never make it this far into the store, and they always get a nice sum of money to set them on the right path, but that’s beside the point, are you _all right_ , darling?”

Crowley looked a little dazed as Aziraphale guided him upstairs to rest on the chair in his bedroom, talking all the while. Aziraphale raked his eyes over Crowley—as thin and bony (or is it boneless?) as ever, a purplish hue spreading threateningly over his nose. Aziraphale’s hand shook slightly as he lifted it to Crowley’s face, stroking the tender skin and trying to keep his touch light. Crowley’s eyes drifted closed as his nose was set back into place.

“That’s quite an arm you’ve got, angel,” Crowley said. His tone was teasing but his voice was soft, almost distant. Aziraphale wondered when the last time Crowley had been healed by a heavenly touch was. Had he ever…?

“Well,” Aziraphale started, but he didn’t know how to finish. He pulled a second chair over and watched Crowley bring his hands to his face, tentatively poking and prodding the now-healed cartilage of his nose. Then, Crowley turned his attention to the room they were in.

“Is this your bedroom?” He asked, and Aziraphale could only nod. A snarky grin spread over Crowley’s face. “ _Well_ , Aziraphale.”

“Stop that,” Aziraphale said, the smile tugging at his own lips. “I could hardly leave you to bleed out and discorporate on my stairs, could I?”

“Ah, don’t think too highly of yourself,” Crowley clucked. “You just caught me off guard.”

“I could say the same to you. It’s been…” _Too long_ , “a while.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said. “Yeah, I got caught up in plans.”

“What kind of plans?”

“That’s for me to know and for you to find out. Don’t want to take all the fun out of your thwarting.”

Aziraphale hummed in the back of his throat. “And should I? Be thwarting you right now?”

“Is there something else you’d rather be doing?”

The silence between them stretched. _Has it been hard for you these years, Crowley?_ Aziraphale wanted to ask. _Has it been as hard for you as it has for me? To watch them die? To watch them create horrible machines for killing? We saw the guillotine, Crowley, and before that the invention of death, but has it ever been as grand and as terrible as this?_

Crowley watched him with careful, golden eyes. He hadn’t worn his shades here, then. Knew Aziraphale wouldn’t mind, had never minded.

“Aziraphale—” he said, and something in Aziraphale’s body thrummed at the sound of his name on Crowley’s lips. He looked as though he were going to say something else, and then, as if they were simply old friends meeting in the park, and not ancient beings staring at each other across a bedroom, he said, “How have things been?”

Aziraphale knew that there were a great number of things they couldn’t be to one another. Right now, he knew Crowley knew this too.

Still, he wanted to reach out. He wanted to meet Crowley where he was, and hoped Crowley would do the same for him.

And maybe one day, they would be ready. Maybe one day no one would care about them, or they would simply stop caring about everyone else caring so much.

Aziraphale felt the blood pumping through the hollow little vessel he occupied. What a truly human thing—to not care.

What  he did not know was that one day, he would hold Crowley’s hand in his, and find out that it was never about not caring. It was about caring so much that you were willing to change. That fundamental human fear of change, that deep, sickly fear, would always be overcome by one thing.

 _Love_.

Aziraphale studied Crowley from his chair, and felt a great number of things. But he didn’t give voice to any of them yet. Instead, he said, “Crowley, my dear. It has been a while. We simply must catch up.”

 

part iv.

 _you have suffered enough, and warred with yourself  
_ _it’s time that you won_

 

In the blink of an eye (although it was more like three days), the Apocalypse came and went, and the world changed. Aziraphale and Crowley, hand in hand at the end of the world, had _felt_ it change.

And yet, when all was said and done, the world still felt remarkably _the same_.

Though, there was one thing that had changed, Aziraphale thought primly as the _clink_ of the champagne glasses zipped through his body like the waves of a tuning fork. Heaven and Hell were most definitely turning a blind eye to them now.

Crowley’s own gaze was turned neatly on Aziraphale, and as he lounged in his chair at the Ritz, Aziraphale basked in the thought that it felt _good_ to be looked at. And to look in turn, he realized, raking his eyes down Crowley’s body. The demon shifted in his chair as if he could sense the turn of Aziraphale’s thoughts.

“Angel,” he was saying. “I’ve been thinking—”

“Dangerous,” Aziraphale said, bringing the glass to his lips. Crowley’s tongue flickered over his lips as though he were tasting the same splash of champagne Aziraphale was.

“Do you ever wish you were a bit more like them?” Crowley continued.

“Who, dear?”

“The humans,” he said, gesticulating widely with a hand and almost bringing his forgotten champagne flute crashing to the floor. Aziraphale righted it with a thought.

“Well,” Aziraphale said. “After six thousand years of living with them, I should say I agree with our compatriots’ notions that we’ve gone…”

“A bit native.” Crowley finished for him.

“Quite right. And I should say that embracing change is a big part of that, too. Just look how well we’ve handled everything!”

Crowley raised a slender eyebrow and Aziraphale bit his lip in anticipation. Was he really going to do this?

“You think we did well?”

“I think we are _handling_ it well. Much better than a lead balloon.”

The smile on Crowley’s face flickered a little, and Aziraphale changed course.

“The simplicity of the matter is, of course, that we are not humans. And I don’t regret that, either. Humans have so very little time, you see,” he held Crowley’s gaze, knew Crowley was watching him behind those dark glasses, “and I am so grateful for the gift of time we have been given. I only wish we had used it properly, and sooner.”

Crowley looked as though he were having trouble swallowing. “Properly? How do you mean?”

Aziraphale reached out his hand, as he had not even a week ago. And just like he had then, Crowley took it, unwavering.

“Won’t you let me show you?” He said. He could feel it already, at the place where their hands met, the pulse of love like a heartbeat shared. He hoped Crowley could feel it too. Crowley’s expression was stern, his head lowered slightly. Aziraphale held his breath—he had no need for it, anyway.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said. “If I go with you, it has to be for good.”

And Aziraphale could feel it all around them, then, centuries of fear and concern melting away. Concern for the other; fear of loss. Aziraphale was resolute, and he would be strong—nothing would ever come between them again. Only love.

“I am here for you, my—” He stopped, his fingers tightening around Crowley’s slim ones. “My love.”

Crowley’s head shot up and, just like that, they were in another world altogether. Or at least, another room. Aziraphale recognized it immediately as his own. He bit back a soft smile, remembering another, wholly different life. He was grateful, so grateful, that they had the chance to do it right this time.

“How’s that for a frivolous miracle,” Aziraphale chuckled, and Crowley turned to embrace him.

“Call it demonic, please, angel,” Crowley said. “I’m losing enough ground as it is.”

“No,” Aziraphale said, bringing his arms around Crowley. “Not losing. I’ve got you. You’re not going to fall.”

Crowley was shaking as Aziraphale brought him to the bed, lowering first himself and then pulling Crowley on top of him. He waited, waited for Crowley to meet him. He didn’t have to wait long, as Crowley quickly moved to kiss him. When their lips met, he felt the world change once more. 

Time passed, but they had so much of it now. Crowley moved against Aziraphale in a way that said, _make an effort_. And make an effort, Aziraphale did. He found that, even as they moved apart to remove their clothes ( _the human way!,_ Aziraphale thrilled), they were always drawn back to each other, nerves magnetically attracted, buzzing like live wires. And still, Aziraphale wanted _more_.

Aziraphale brushed a warm palm against the course scales that clustered at the base of Crowley’s spine, causing Crowley to actually _hiss_. Aziraphale’s heart thrummed in his throat.

“Oh my dear boy,” he said. “Have I hurt you?”

“Never,” Crowley said, digging his face into the flesh of Aziraphale’s shoulder. “More.”

 _Well._ Aziraphale thought. That he could do.

Moving his hands to clutch at the jagged edges of Crowley’s hips, Aziraphale lined them up just _so_. He was going off of feel— _were they both?—_ but already the anticipation had twisted his stomach into a neat knot. Like sitting down in a new restaurant, eager to try whatever splendid dish was placed before him. Looking up at Crowley, his serpent eyes holding Aziraphale’s gaze, unwavering, Aziraphale knew he was in for a treat.

“Darling,” Aziraphale said, the endearment coating his tongue, “Do let me know if—”

“Not gonna happen,” Crowley growled low. “I’ve wanted this for so long—anything, anything is fine, angel.”

“Right then,” and as he finally aligned himself, he pressed deep and up into the demon above him, Crowley sinking lower with a soft gasp. The sensation was fine, a little tight pressure that he was so unused to. He hoped Crowley was enjoying it more—

 _Oh,_ Aziraphale pinched his eyes closed as Crowley began to _move_. Those hips always had had a mind of their own.

“’Ziraphale,” Crowley was whispering. “Are you okay?”

“Crowley,  my dear,” he answered, fluttering his eyes open to meet Crowley’s worried gaze. “Don’t you dare _stop_.”

That clever smile, edges so sharp. “Right,” the demon said, as he bent over to capture Aziraphale’s mouth with a bruising kiss. He had to lift himself off slightly to reach, and when they broke apart, he fell again. A rough groan filled the room—Aziraphale wasn’t sure of the source.

“Beautiful,” Aziraphale said, watching as Crowley bent his spine back, screwing his eyes closed. “You are a vision, my love, so perfect,” he continued, and was that a shimmer in the corner of one of Crowley’s eyes?

“Aziraphale,” Crowley’s voice was pitched low, and Aziraphale recognized his warning tone.

“Why?” Aziraphale felt the urge to argue, that urge they shared so often, for so long—even as another urge overtook them all the same. “Why can’t I say it? You look beautiful right now, love, so beautiful—you feel,” a hitch of breath, “ _so_ good, darling, and you are doing such a good job. You are…” Oh, he saw that Crowley was hitting the right spot now, the demon’s motions beginning to stutter erratically, “You are _good_ , and I love you so much.”

Crowley broke above him.

As everything, _everything_ , tightened around Aziraphale, he felt the world shudder around them, almost threatening to blink out of existence. Aziraphale tightened his grip on Crowley’s hips as they both came. He wasn’t going to lose him now.

He wasn’t going to lose him ever.

 

part v.

 _hell, i’m gonna be me, i’m gonna be free  
_ _i’m walking on moonbeams, and staring out to sea_

 

This was it, the moment of change that every human agonized and thrilled over in all of the romantic media that Aziraphale had ever consumed—they were moving in together.

Crowley had done most of the heavy lifting in finding the place, and Aziraphale had let him, choosing instead to pepper kisses to the base of Crowley’s neck as he hunched over the computer, scouring local listings. Crowley would sputter and try to hiss at him that he needed to concentrate, but whenever Aziraphale brushed his hand reassuringly down his back Crowley would crumple and cool like a fever had broken.

That’s not to say that the nature of their relationship was all that different. They just had the added element of clarity, now. And that was never more clear than when they went into one of their moral arguments (although Crowley had once heard Anathema refer to it as a “domestic spat” and had raged for an hour).

They had never argued over the cottage, though. “The South Downs?” Aziraphale had questioned briefly.

“What do you think?” Crowley had asked pleasantly, although Aziraphale saw his mind was made up, and with a kiss pressed to his cunning lips (which nearly turned into something more), Aziraphale demonstrated his agreement.

And when their life had been neatly transposed into their nice little cobwebby cottage in the South Downs, Aziraphale and Crowley sat across from one another at their kitchen table, and Aziraphale sipped cocoa while Crowley flicked the leftover crumbs of their breakfast at him.

“Really, dear,” Aziraphale scolded, and it wasn’t that he didn’t put his heart into the objection, but that his whole heart already belonged to Crowley.

“Old habits,” said Crowley with a smile, as he reached across the table and took Aziraphale’s hand in his.

They settled in for the day ahead, and every day after that, content in knowing that in the endless ebb of time and change, their love would be a constant.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are so appreciated. Thank you for reading!


End file.
